


God Is In The Details

by Sodafly



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The god in Grantaire was seen in glimpses; in the flash of his smile, in his cries of pleasure, in the way the morning sun made his skin shine and the tangles of his hair look glossy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Is In The Details

There is something serene in it all, in a mixed sense that would not normally be associated with the person in question. Grantaire is anything but serene, not when drunk, not when sober, not even lying on his back in a post coitus state of bliss. There was this constant buzz, either prominent in expression or buried deep beneath the skin.

 

But for now he looked serene in Enjolras’ eyes, and with serenity came beauty.

 

The first few days of spring where upon them, casting warm sunlight down upon the street as the night started to draw out and the day grow longer. Over the passed few days, Grantaire had been oddly cheerful, even when painfully sober. Maybe it was something in the spring air that sent poets to ecstasy and young lovers into a frenzied heat. France was beautiful in the spring; even the most cynical could accept this. Either way, the change of mood and the brief disregard for liquor pleased Enjolras to no end.

 

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, Enjolras stretched, uncurling like a cat tangled in sheets that have pooled around his hips as he sits up. The space next to him is vacant, an experience that is unknown to him seeing as Grantaire was in habit of sleeping with a hangover until the later hours of the day. But the morning lark within Enjolras had been caged by exhaustion; studies and dreaming and personal neglect had worn the early bird’s feathers. Spending the night in Grantaire’s bed never helped either, seeing as the other was never content with catching an early night. Where Enjolras came alive with the sun; Grantaire rose with the moon, a large eyed owl who saw all by merely twisting his neck.

 

The night owl in question was currently stood in front of the open window, back facing the room, clad only in trousers and a shirt. The street view outside the window was being duplicated with exact detail onto thick paper. Enjolras made no sound, merely propped himself up at a slight angle in order to watch, content to be lazy for once. Eyes took in the man who had warmed the last few weeks of winter; who offered a distraction from studies and dreams of revolution for a brief moment.

 

Grantaire often compared Enjolras to a god. Whispered in his ear the words of adoration and worship that were not returned.

 

“You are golden.” Grantaire would say, especially when his tongue was laced and his heart filled with passion “Complete with the majesty of a god and all the scarred beauty that would make even the fair Apollo envious.”

 

“ And if I am a god, then what does that make you, given your cynical nature?” Enjolras responded in words, whereas his body responded by arching into the other’s touch, a red flush spreading to fleck his neck. He could feel Grantaire’s smile press against the jut of his hip.

 

“I’m am merely your servant, a humble worshipper who only begs you let me follow where you lead and never cast me from your side.” Enjolras made no such promise, but took the statement with a surge of gratitude. He knew Grantaire. Knew the other man would serve him despite his disbelieve, would kills for him, would die from him and all he believed. It was foolish really, but Grantaire thought Enjolras’ life was worth ten times that of a normal man and worth a hundred times his own.

 

But what of Enjolras towards Grantaire?

 

When not being driven into scowling and scorning by the insistent drink and acts of defiance; Enjolras looked upon Grantaire and could see the god residing in him also.

 

It was not the transcendent god of beauty and power that Enjolras was so often compared to, this god was more somber and misguided. The god in him only radiated outwards in moments like this, when Grantaire stood in deep, sober concentration, making the world his with a stick of charcoal and blackened fingers. When the smooth skin of his back was just about visible through the thin material of his shirt, the evidence of the previous nights activities forming landmarks on the moors of his back.

 

Grantaire was a god; unholy and disheveled, crown lopsided upon his dark, unruly locks and clothed in forest green with twines of silver. The cynics worshiped at his cluttered alter, sacrificed their souls at the bottom of a bottle and sort enlightenment through the blurry world of drunkenness. Enjolras submitted to him, relinquished all control to chapped lips, witty tongue, clever fingers that filled his ever hectic world with pleasures previously unknown.

 

The god in Grantaire was seen in glimpses; in the flash of his smile, in his cries of pleasure, in the way the morning sun made his skin shine and the tangles of his hair look glossy. These were the ways that only Enjolras saw and that were bestowed upon him like a gift.

 

Of course, there was no need to say these things aloud. Enjolras’ words were made to inspire and demand and argue, not to make proclamations of affection or desire. When Grantaire said ‘I love you’, Enjolras remained silent but knew Grantaire could read between the lines.

 

“What, dare I ask, is consuming your mind at this hour?” Grantaire asks, smashing through Enjolras’ pondering without turning to face him. It took a while for Enjolras to answer and when he did the only thing he said was “It matters not”.

 

Grantaire looked over his shoulder, the light highlighting the angles of his profile, before shrugging.

 

“I have not seen you draw in a long time.” Enjolras remarks, remembering the very few times he had seen the other sketching on small scraps of paper, or noticed the stains of paint on his knuckles.

 

“It is hard not to be inspired when the likes of you decide to sleep in late in my bed.” Grantaire replied, waving a hand dismissively.

 

“Ah but you are not drawing me”

 

“Turn yourself into a glorious tower and I just might.”

 

Humming, Enjolras rose from the mattress, sheet still wrapped around his waist in order to grab a book from the stack in the far corner, before settling back into his original position.

 

To stay a while, in their place of worship, would do no harm.


End file.
